Fate and Earl Grey
by akayh
Summary: The mortuary seemed an unlikely place for it all to begin. But really, when Harrison thought about it, it wasn't very odd at all; it might be almost fitting for the formerly estranged third Holmes brother, who was also 007's quartermaster, to fall in love with the woman who counted in such an unorthodox place. So earl grey was brewed, and the existence of fate was contemplated.
1. 1: A Brotherly Breaking and Entering

The young man shivered slightly as a cold tingle crawled up his spine. His sheet and blanket had been kicked to the end of the bed only an hour or two after he had slid, exhausted, under them. Now his thin, lanky frame, clothed only in a pair of pants, lay exposed to the creeping chill of the night air. His figure shuddered a second time, and he instinctively folded his knees up closer to his chest in an effort to retain what precious heat his flesh still held.

The man was only half awake and vaguely aware of his body's tremors. The splayed fingers on the hand of his outstretched arm groped for warmth on the other side of the bed and, when returning with only the frigidity of empty space, curled into a fist. He scolded himself for making the gesture, knowing there was nothing, or no one, there.

Sometimes being alone was rather..._lonely_.

A barely audible sound, much like a vase regaining its balance on a tabletop after it's been bumped, found its way through the closed bedroom door, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. Suddenly realizing that it wasn't his calico cat prowling around in the other room, as she spent her nights outside, his senses sharpened instantaneously. He propped himself up as silently but swiftly as he could, feeling for his glasses on the bedside table, his eyes now locked on the door.

He cursed himself for not keeping a gun in his room. He found himself relying too heavily on his self-built security system, which he had believed was virtually impregnable. This thought brought him to two questions: who exactly was in his flat and how the _hell_ did they get in?

His feet touched down on the icy hardwood floor, toes first, and he padded across the room until his hand reached the cool metal doorknob. Unarmed and heart thumping in his bare chest, the young man slowly turned the knob and pushed the door open as noiselessly as possible.

A tall shadow stood by the window near his desk, the moon just bright enough to illuminate the profile of the figure's face, which he recognized immediately. Even without the light, he would've guessed the intruder's identity by the umbrella hanging from its arm and the snobby upturned nose.

"Hello, Harrison," the figure said, his voice dark and familiar. The younger man shook his head.

"Dammit, Myc, I'm in my pants," Harrison said, running a hand through his brown curls, "What are you doing here? How did you even get it in?"

"We haven't talked for ages, you know," the man said. Harrison flicked on a lamp and narrowed his eyes at the taller man.

"You could've called, Mycroft. Instead of bloody breaking and entering in the middle of the night," he replied sharply, collapsing on to the small couch. The other man remained stiff and standing, with impeccable posture.

"I knew you wouldn't take my calls even if I did," the older one said, quite miffed at the other's attitude. Harrison rolled his eyes.

"Yes, brilliant deduction, worthy of our brother," he snapped, "Why are you _here_? I've got my own life now, what's so important that you get to barge in on it?"

"Sherlock would like you to drop by tomorrow. Said he needs to speak with you."

"Why? I haven't talked to him in years. What does he want from me?" Choosing to stay silent, Mycroft held out a business card from his pocket. The younger brother took it begrudgingly.

"Baker Street? He lives on Baker Street? Rather ordinary for him, isn't it?" he said. Mycroft again ignored his brother's questions and responded sourly.

"If I'm not mistaken, and I rarely am, I believe Sherlock _misses_ you." Harrison was silent.

"What if I'm busy tomorrow?"

"I know you're not."

"How could you possibly know-oh, I'd forgotten-how did Sherly put it?-you _are_ the British government? Yes, that sounds about right." Mycroft rolled his eyes and began to stride toward the front door.

"I see you two will still get along just fine."

"See yourself out then," Harrison called, heading back to his room after switching off the lamp. Mycroft stopped at the front door and chuckled before replying.

"Good night, _Q_."


	2. 2: The Other 221B Resident

The morning came quickly for Harrison, who found himself unable to fall back into the blissful obliviousness of slumber after the unexpected visit from his eldest brother. Instead, the puzzled man lay on his back with his hands behind his head of tousled locks, watching the blank ceiling become a haphazard design of warm yellow stripes as the sunlight seeped through the cracks in the curtains and threw itself across the dull white paint.

Sighing, he rose up from his mattress, pushing his glasses higher on his nose. He strolled to his small kitchen, filled a kettle, and set it on the stove to boil. Harrison enjoyed doing certain things the more traditional way, in contrast to the high tech life he led.

His head buzzing with the possibilities of what Sherlock could want to speak to him about, he dressed absentmindedly. His arms reached for clothes that were always there, and put them on in the correct order without any conscious thought needed, leaving his keen mind to wander.

Hearing the kettle whistle across the flat, Harrison made his way to the kitchen, taking a quick glance in a mirror as he passed and straightening his necktie. He poured the water carefully into a fat teapot, the steam curling in pleasantly warm tendrils over his face, fogging his glasses. Waiting until his vision was restored, he set the pot on his small bistro table and plucked his mobile from his pocket.

No missed calls. No texts. No mission updates. No alerts or emergencies. No terrorists. No agents. No M.

No rush.

Though he thrived in the urgency and importance of his occupation, Harrison was certain he would enjoy his time off. As long as all went well with Sherlock.

And that part of the day could get _very_ interesting.

Sipping his scalding earl grey cautiously, he scrolled aimlessly through various news sites on his laptop, barely even skimming the articles. It seemed today was fairly uneventful for the rest of the world.

Sighing as he realized he was only putting off the inevitable, Harrison rose from his chair, downing the last gulp of his tea too quickly and pausing for a moment to register the painful burning in his throat before moving on.

Allowing himself a last content glance around his peaceful flat, he grabbed his jumper from its hook on the wall and opened the door to the damp yet bustling atmosphere that could belong only to London, England.

Because the tube reminded him of a rather unpleasant chain of events connected to the previous M's death, Harrison chose to take a cab to his brother's residence.

After only several turns, it began to rain, just a light drizzle, but rain nonetheless. He hoped the weather was not a omen of what the day held for him before he remembered he didn't believe in that sort of superstitious nonsense and that it rained in London extremely frequently anyways.

"Just here," he instructed the cabbie, handing him payment for the ride and waiting until the vehicle came to a full stop to swing open the door.

"Idn't this where that detective fella' lives? Ah, what's 'is name?" the cabbie said, his eyebrows furrowed in thought.

"Sherlock Holmes," Harrison offered. The old cabbie's expression lightened when he realized his passenger was correct.

"Oh, a'course," he chortled. Suddenly the cabbie's face fell, a shadow of seriousness crossing over his weathered features. "You know, I never believed 'e was fake. Not for a minute." The young man was silent, his eyes clouded with memories.

"No one did," he muttered inaudibly. He shook his head and exited the cab, his eyes inspecting the so very ordinary door that apparently led to the flat that his older brother inhabited. This visit would certainly be interesting, if nothing else.

After rapping solidly on the door with cold knuckles, ignoring the available buzzer, Harrison absentmindedly observed the people hurrying past him or entering the bakery to his right as he waited. The youngest Holmes considered himself to be a patient person, and, knowing his brother wouldn't put visitors very high up on his list of priorities, even ones he had sent for, was prepared to be kept lingering on the sidewalk for a rather lengthy period of time.

But he was determined to speak to Sherlock today. In fact, he found his curiosity heightening as the seconds ticked by. How was his brother faring since his return from the dead? And what of the former army doctor turned blogger, John Watson, the man whose name always accompanied Sherlock's in the paper? He had doubted for a while if John would last until Sherlock reappeared.

Harrison felt the drops of falling water collect in his mass of curls and trickle down the back of his neck and behind his ears. As he removed his glasses to wipe away the rain that blurred them, he heard a deadbolt slide back and quickly placed them back on the bridge of his nose. The door swung in and he came face to face with a familiar short, blond man in a striped jumper that Sherlock would've unceasingly teased Harrison for if had it hung from his own spindly frame.

"Oh, um, good morning," the man said, clearly surprised by the appearance of the young man. He tilted his head just barely and furrowed his eyebrows, perhaps trying to work out why he felt like he should recognize this unexpected visitor.

"Good morning, Doctor Watson." The man hesitated for a moment before extending his arm.

"You know my name-," he said distractedly. Harrison took his offered hand and shook it with a polite firmness. So this was the man known by some as his brother's sidekick. It was satisfying to finally see him in the flesh and not just in print.

"Yes, is Sherlock in? He sent for me. Actually, he sent Mycroft to my flat in the middle of the night." John still seemed puzzled and his eyes kept flickering from Harrison's hair to his shoulders to his hands to his eyes and his cheekbones. He almost chuckled at the older man's apparent perplexed state.

"-Sherlock? No, he's at St. Bart's...do I know you?" The young Holmes let a chortle escape his thin lips.

"No, we haven't been properly acquainted, unfortunately. Holmes, Harrison Holmes." John barely kept his jaw hinged on as he jutted it out in obvious shock, leaning forward and raising his eyebrows.

"Holmes, did you say?"

"Yes, I did." The falling raindrops suddenly fattened and began splattering down rather noticeably on Harrison and his practically soaked jumper. John, still speechless, took a step back from the threshold.

"I'm going to kill him," he spat, waving the younger man inside. Harrison knew exactly who he was referring to.


End file.
